<-- Google Analytics START --> <-- Google Analytics END -->

john davies
notes from a small vicar
from a parish
in Liverpool, UK

    Thursday, June 19, 2003
    Weep weep weep
    I feel like weeping. Spent the morning in Intensive Care at the bedside of a little boy, seven, with cancer, gravely ill. Two months ago he was a noise in my ear, playing about in a church aisle with his brother while we and a merry congregation celebrated his parents' 25th wedding anniversary. What a contrast today, seeing him lying there, arms full of tubes, groaning in pain each time his little head moved. Should professionals cry? If not, you can stick your profession. I feel like weeping. If I do, perhaps I will weep in the spirit of Michael Leunig:
      Sob and weep
      By candlelight
      Weep upwards
      Into the night
      Weep onto a sleeping mouse
      Weep naked underneath the house
      Weep among the dying trees
      Weep down on your hands and knees
      Weep with angels when you sleep
      Softly gently
      Weep weep weep
    ['The 1989 Melbourne Weeping Festival Programme' from A Bunch of Poesy]